


Ashes to Ashes

by spacemonkey



Category: U2
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 04:48:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13287315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: Edge deals with his feelings for Bono, following a night on a balcony post-Bowie concert. Set in 1990.





	Ashes to Ashes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fouroux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fouroux/gifts).



> *sneaks in, throws a fic at you all and then darts away back into the darkness*
> 
> Not really. But yes, really. I had no time to write this, but the muse cannot be ignored, and if it's a bit rambly then I'm sorry, I wrote it in one sitting, and I left it open-ended like I did because I am a terrible person. I keep asking myself, how many fics can I set during this time period, and how many fics can I reference/be inspired by Bowie? Apparently the answer is ALL OF THEM, so here we are. Inspired by true event! (...the Bowie concert, nothing more....in fact, I very much doubt Edge was at that concert irl, but I am an artiste and shall write it my way) Ilu all.

 

Edge was sure it had started in Ohio, though he might have been wrong. Certainly, there had been hints throughout the past ten, fifteen years—really, it had begun on his end from the moment that Bono had walked into his life with that cocksure grin, asking “How long have you played?” and it had lingered ever since, a thought in the back of his mind that refused to leave him. And it was a thought that changed daily, that never quite managed to fully form. No, it came in fragments, snippets that zeroed in on features and sounds and scents and touches. _His eyes, the look in his eyes._ _His hair, I wonder . . . If only I could reach out and touch, reach out and find out . . ._

It had been a long time coming. It had become a part of him, like breathing. In and out, Bono’s hand on his arm like it belonged there. In and out, keep calm and carry on. He could do this, Edge told himself again and again. He could make it through, because that look in Bono’s eyes, the one that drew Edge in again and again and made him want for more, that look spoke words louder than Bono’s mouth ever could _. I love you_ , that look said. _I adore you. I’m glad to be here with you, and would you look at you being so smart and funny, even when you think you’re not. My best friend._

_My best friend, nothing more. Stay away. Keep calm and carry on._

Christ, how long had it been, really? He could never quite remember the exact date of their meeting. Time was a furious concept sometimes, forever getting away from him. And perhaps it was best that he couldn’t pinpoint it down to that exact moment. Knowing the amount of years that had passed was enough. If he were to look back and remember the day, the hour, then who knows how life would turn out? Obsession was forever itching at his palms. If he knew the day, the hour, he might just give in and find himself during those dark and solitary moments, counting just how long it had been from that very second to the day, the hour in which their paths had first crossed.

He was many things, yes, but not a desperate man. Not yet. Not completely. Though there had been moments throughout the years where he had been close to it. And sometimes he had doubts. Sometimes he looked at Bono and wondered. It was so easy to imagine something that wasn’t there, and he did, Jesus knows he’d done it so many times before, but there was imagining and then there was seeing. And sometimes, he looked at Bono and saw it all written on his face. _It’s real, it’s real . . ._

It couldn’t have been. It hadn’t. Until it was. He was almost sure.

They had been in Ohio. Why Ohio? There was an obvious answer to that question, but Edge just couldn’t land on it. They were forever in places, going here and going there, sometimes with intent, other times just to meander through the days. They hadn’t gone there specifically for the concert, Edge knew that much. No, that had just been one of those things they’d fallen into. “I heard you were in town,” Bowie had said. “A little birdy told me. You’re welcome to come tonight, of course. That is, if you want to come. . .” And of course they had wanted to. It was Bowie, and they had been in town. _No_ had never been an option.

The night had gone how it often went, with Edge feeling wholly out of place, with an uncomfortable smile plastered on his face as he insisted he was anything but. And Bono, front and centre. Bono, who often lingered on the outskirts of uncomfortable with Edge but never showed it, wearing that smile of his, and his eyes, his eyes . . .

Sometimes that look was the only thing that kept Edge from walking away. Not from everything, never from everything. But from the little things. The parties, the interviews. Award shows. Marriages. Only the little things, of course.

Denial wasn’t just a river in Egypt. It was a big part of what kept him going. He could play a tune, find that melody and stick with it, and pretend as though his life wasn't falling to pieces around him. 

At the end of the concert Bono had ended up on stage singing his heart out next to Bowie _. Jean Genie_ going into _Gloria_. Edge should have been proud of him. He should have been happy, overwhelmed at the success they had found together, and the continued rise of Bono, who had built himself from the ground up and somehow found himself standing next to his idol, with his hair flowing down his back in tangles. _Don’t you cut it,_ Edge had thought instead of being proud _. Don’t you dare cut your hair, not until I’m able to run my hands through it and show you all the ways in which I ache._

It was what he remembered from that concert. The music had faded away in pieces, the stage was a distant memory, but front and centre remained Bono’s hair.

It was shorter now, of course. Bono could only go so long with one look before he got antsy. But Edge still had his memory of that night. Bono’s hair, and the after.

Bono had breathed in the night differently to Edge. In the after, he had been on cloud nine, pupils blown, eyes dark, a permanent smile on his face. In the after, he had clung to Edge on the balcony of his hotel room, smelling like sweat, like faded cologne, his hair fluttering in the breeze as he murmured in Edge’s ear, “I’m stuck with a valuable friend, I’m happy, hope you’re happy too.” It hadn’t been the song he’d sung on stage, of course, but it was the song that stuck with them nonetheless. Three times he had sung those lyrics. Three times in a row, as he had continued clinging to Edge. He hadn’t been drunk enough to justify holding onto Edge the way he had. For as long as he had. _His fingers, his breath on my cheek . . ._

“God, Edge,” Bono had breathed out. “Do you ever think back to when we were kids—”

 “Yes.” Sometimes it was all Edge could do. He had never been innocent when it came to Bono. There had never been a before and an after. The first meeting had thrown a switch inside of Edge, and it had been too long, far too long. Years of silence.

“Did we ever imagine we’d be here? Doing this?” Bono's breath had been warm, whisky sour against Edge’s chin, and it was enough to draw out a silence that had no right to appear. Not at such a moment. Not when the answer had been so simple. And not when they had been so close.

Edge’s brain had reached critical mass far too quickly. And in the lingering silence, Bono had just smiled at him. _His smile, that look in his eyes . . ._

There had been too much warmth. In that smile, in his face, in the small space between them. And that look in his eye had been different. Edge was almost sure. He wasn’t one for delusion, not even when he was drunk _. I know_ , that look had said that night. _I know._

“It’s alright,” Bono had soothed him like he was a child, like he’d just been asked what five times five was and had come up with seventeen. “It’s overwhelming sometimes, isn’t it?” He had meant their lives, of course. A statement that was simply a follow-up to his previously unanswered question. But when Edge had looked at him, truly looked at him out there on the balcony, he had seen so much more written on Bono’s face. Overwhelming was the word for it. _It's real._

The silence had been broken by Bono’s soft laughter, muffled against Edge’s shoulder, and then interrupted briefly when he kissed Edge’s cheek. “What a night,” Bono had murmured. “Can you believe it, Edge?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.” Bono had let out a sigh then, one of those _what are we going to do with you?_ sighs, but when Edge had glanced down he’d spotted the smile easily. _I know._ _I know._

He could make himself believe it had started for Bono that night in Ohio. He had to believe. After so many years of toughing it on his own, he needed something to cling to. And often he thought of it and wondered. Maybe it was better to stay the distance. Maybe he could take that big step forward and change their lives, tear down those walls and make it all wrong while making it right. There was so much that he could think to do, or not to do, and he just didn’t know, and before he could think to find an answer, he was in the studio with a whole other slew of problems. The year had slipped away from them, and now the band was close to drowning.

Could they make it? Did they even want to?

He couldn’t think like that. He couldn’t focus on it, any of it. He just couldn’t focus. He had to stop thinking about it. He had to just stop thinking, full stop. Find the melody. Lose the silence, make it through the day. He had to try. 

He couldn't stop.

Time flowed differently inside the studio. Was it Friday? Was it Tuesday? It was six pm. It was one am, and Edge had been clinging to his guitar for days. He was scared to put it down. To step away, go outside, and face the life that was rapidly slipping away from him. Outside there was nothing but grey. Berlin spoke to him from time to time, but it was never good things. She called again, it would say some days, and she doesn’t sound happy. Those were the days that he wished to forget. But they were nothing compared to the days when she didn’t call. Twisted thoughts could easily manifest in the continued silence of his life. He had to fill it somehow. Noise was good, noise was important, but only the right noise. And when the melody wasn’t there—and it hadn’t been there for quite some time now—when it was weak and threadbare, the silence could easily break on through and remind him of so many things. How many days had it been since she had last called? Too many. How many months had passed since that night in Ohio? He struggled to remember, but on those bad days it was the same answer: too many. On his good days he could stop and remember himself, remember their world, and think _not enough_.

Not enough, because he could still remember all the intricate details of that night on the balcony, the gentle kiss on his cheek, the warmth between them, the tension without the spark. He could have given in. He could have done more than he had. Would Bono have turned him away? Perhaps. It was hard to know, but easy to turn over in his mind, again and again, when not enough time had passed. He hoped for it to become a distant memory one of these days. He hoped never to forget. He clung to his guitar and searched for the melody that would cut through all the silence and bullshit and make him whole again.

It was four am, and he wasn’t alone.

“Edge,” Bono called out. “Edge. Come on. Time for a break. Come on, follow me.”

Edge put down his guitar and followed.

They journeyed through Hansa Studios, Bono’s hand reaching out behind him to grasp Edge’s wrist only when Edge started to lag. There was so much history to the studio. So much brilliance had taken place between those walls, and sometimes Edge felt as though they had no right to be there. Not when they were doing little else but failing. They had come to Berlin to try and capture some of that greatness for themselves, to use the studio as a band-aid, but they were falling to pieces still, and when he touched the wall he imagined Iggy Pop doing the same. When he breathed in deeply, he pictured Bowie doing the same thing standing exactly where Edge was. And any thought of Bowie brought Edge right back to that night in Ohio.

“Sit down,” Bono instructed when they reached the corner he’d been searching for. Two comfy chairs and the promise of hot tea. Edge sat down. Bono fetched the tea. There wasn’t any milk, and he put too much sugar in Edge’s mug, but the tea was hot and strong and warm and enough to make him feel almost content, if only for that short while.

“Good for the soul, tea is,” Bono said without having taken a single sip of his own. There were lines on his face that didn’t belong there, shadows that had lingered for days. He wasn’t himself. Neither of them were, but Edge couldn’t feel guilty for bringing on any misfortune in his own life. No, he could only feel guilty for dragging Bono down with him. And he knew, _he knew_ , there was so much more to it than his own bullshit—they were so close to drowning—but when he looked at Bono, when he mentally traced all those brand new and deep lines that had appeared on his face, _sorry_ was the only word in which he could think to say.

“Sorry? What are you sorry for?”

“I-I just—”

“Edge.” Bono shook his head, gently placed his mug down, and in a single blink he was sitting on the arm of Edge’s chair. “Edge, you’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

“It isn’t working—”

“It will. It’ll work, okay? It has to. We’ll make it through. _You’ll_ make it through. The album, and whatever it is that’s going on at home. It’ll all work out, just trust me on that one. Have faith, we’ve always made it through before.”

But they hadn’t. Not always. And Bono knew it too. The smile on his face, the look in his eyes . . . _He knows. He knows._ Those lines on his face could only have been caused by worrying. He was not himself, and while his expression was calm, that look in his eyes seemed frantic.

“Have we?” Edge asked. Bono just looked at him, thrown for a beat too long, before shaking his head and continuing as though Edge had never spoken.

“Maybe you should take a few days off and—”

“I don’t want to go home.”

“Edge, you look like hell, alright? You’ve been at it for days, I mean, I go and come back and you’re still here after fuckin’ hours have passed—”

“And so what? How many albums have we recorded?”

“Why does that matter?”

“It matters. You’ve gone and come back on every other album and found me still at the studio after hours have passed, and you’ve never been bothered before. Why now?”

“I _was_ bothered before, I just never said—”

“So why are you saying it now?”

Bono slammed his hand against the back of Edge’s chair before exclaiming, “Because I’m worried about you!” For the briefest of moments he looked positively furious, like one more push would be enough to make him start brawling, but then the anger just melted away, and in its place remained little more than pure exhaustion. Bono wasn’t just tired, he was done, in a way that Edge could relate with, that they could both feel in their bones. “I don’t know what to do, Edge. I don’t know how to make it work. Larry and Adam . . . we’re losing them, I can feel it. I don’t want to lose you too.”

It would have hurt less had Bono just punched Edge in the chest and left it at that. A similar feeling, yes, but still less painful. Edge couldn’t find the words. He could barely find his breath, hitching as it was in his throat. When he looked at Bono, he saw that teenager he had first come across, only without the cocksure smile, without the confidence. All that was left was loss. It was all Bono had known at the time. “You won’t.”

Bono nodded, but he didn’t look convinced. And when he laughed, there was no soul to it. He was a performance act at times, and during those times all Edge could do was look through the bullshit and find the truth.

He looked. And there it was: frantic. That, and something more. He looked, and Bono let him, and neither of them turned away. He couldn’t, and Bono wouldn’t, and the space between them faded away as Bono slid from the arm and into the chair beside him. Edge wasn’t breathing. How did they get here? It had happened so fast. It still wasn't happening fast enough. He couldn’t think. _His eyes, that look in his eyes . . ._

“Edge . . .” Bono’s voice was hesitant, and Edge didn’t let him continue. With hesitancy often came a change of mind, and they were too close for that. Edge couldn’t bear to take a step back. He would never function properly if they didn’t follow through, knowing that they’d been so close and lost it all. He kissed Bono, gently at first, and then harder, one hand in his hair, the other pulling him closer, closer until they were pressed together too tightly, and Edge felt as though he might suffocate, but he couldn’t stop. Not until Bono knew. And he was aching in so many ways, for Bono, for himself and in himself, and there came a point where he had to pull back, where it all became far too much. A fleeting pause was all he was granted, and then Bono was kissing him, shifting to become a too-warm body in his lap, straddling him, grasping and gasping when their teeth bumped and then not laughing when he could have. _His fingers, that look in his eyes . . ._

Frantic.

Slowly, Bono started to fade, and they returned to gentle, and then back to nothing. Silence came over them like the most unwelcome of guests, and Bono turned from a hard body in Edge’s lap to soft, slumping and sliding until he was nestled in the small space between Edge’s thigh and the arm of the chair. It felt like a moment where something had to be said, but Edge had nothing. His brain was well past critical mass; it had exploded. Instinct told him to look for the door. He could run. He could just get up and run away from Bono, from everything. It was tempting. It would be easier until it wouldn’t. Eventually, he would have to come back and face the music. And what would he say then? How would he fix it? And why would he even go? This was what he wanted. This was what he had wanted since that very first moment. Why would he ever even consider running from this, when he finally had everything he wanted?

He didn’t though. He never could. There was too much baggage. There was too much, just too much and what could they even do? How could they survive this? He was close to drowning, and now he was dragging Bono down with him.

It was a mess. He could have still been clinging to his guitar, where it was safe and easier. What time was it now? Five am? Six? He didn’t even know what day it was. He barely remembered the year. This was how a person fell to pieces. Dealing with the aftermath of a mistake. Because it was a mistake. It was. He knew it.

It was like Bono could sense his inner turmoil, and know exactly what to do. It started with a sigh, and then slowly he brought his head down to rest against Edge’s shoulder. A moment later his palm found Edge’s thigh, his fingers squeezing briefly, and when he glanced up his eyes were clear and warm. _I know you_ , his look said. _I know._

“What did we just do?” Edge said only when he couldn’t stand the silence any longer. “Bono, what—”

“Do you remember that night, a few months back, out on the balcony? And don’t say no, I know you remember. After the Bowie concert.”

Edge couldn’t believe it. He stared down at Bono in wonder for a moment too long, before letting out a quiet, “I remember.” Of course he did. He’d never thought that Bono would find that night significant enough to single out, however. It was a day for surprises. It was a day for the unexpected, and the sun had barely started to rise through the window.

“I wanted to—” Bono cut himself off with a strangled laugh. A brief silence followed, during which he looked uncertain and then determined, shaking his head before continuing. “I wanted this to happen that night. I don’t know why that night. Maybe it was because it was just, it was such an amazing night for me, you know? I got to sing with Bowie, Edge. Bowie! And I’d dreamed of doing that for fuckin’ ever, but as soon as I got offstage all I wanted to do was find you. Share that elation with you. It’s all I wanted to do, and it was like this overwhelming urge in my chest. I had to find you. Just you. I was happy, and I wanted to be happy with you. I wanted to kiss you. But I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It was too much. That first step. You taking it was a completely different thing, though. I think it would have been different if you had done that, if you’d kissed me that night. I was expecting you to. I was hoping you would. But you didn’t. I don’t think I could have made it any more obvious, and yet . . .”

“And yet . . .”

“And yet,” Bono echoed quietly. He glanced back up at Edge. “I know what you’re going to say. It was a mistake, it was wrong, we’re married, there’s a whole list of reasons why not to follow through with this. I know you, Edge. And you are always right. Always. It _was_ a mistake. It _was_ wrong. But I cannot feel terrible about it. I just can’t. We’re forever denying ourselves the right to be truly happy in life. I don’t know how we can come back from this. And maybe we shouldn’t have to.”

“We should talk about this.”

“We _are_ talking about this.”

“No, _you_ are.”

“Alright. Then talk.”

Edge tried. But nothing would come. No argument, no reasoning, nothing. He was a blank slate, a lost cause with his best friend pressed against him, growing warmer by the second. He could think of nothing else but reaching out and running his hands through Bono’s hair. _Let me. Let me touch you, and show you again just how much I ache._

“Do you remember what you were singing that night?” he asked suddenly.

“ _Jean Genie_?”

“No, on the balcony.”

Bono nodded. “Mmm. That’s my favourite part of the song, you know.”

“I know.” There was something Edge had to ask, but all he could do was hesitate. He needed to hear it though. He didn’t know why, but he needed it, more than anything else he could possibly need in that very moment. It was a want, an urge that he had no energy to resist. _Your voice, your voice . . ._ “Could you sing it now?”

“Why?”

“I just want you to.”

Bono had that look in his eyes when he glanced up. _I know. I know._ A smile graced his face then, and stayed there as he sang, as he refused to break eye contact and look away from Edge. “I’m stuck with a valuable friend, I’m happy, hope you’re happy too . . .”

 


End file.
